Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller (22 page)

Neither Fitch nor Boucher said a word.

“Guys,” Arcineaux said, “don’t think I’m stupid just because I made my living trying to outsmart crustaceans.
One and one is a pretty simple calculation.” He kept his eyes ahead as he maneuvered the craft slowly downriver. “You asked me to wear special shoes on one of Dumont’s boats. I figured you were looking for traces of drugs. Then I heard those guys talking in that bar. They come to Louisiana and don’t know folks can speak French here. What idiots. They admitted they were smuggling, and they’d just flown in from Europe.” He turned around to face them sitting in the cockpit. “How’m I doing so far?”

Boucher and Fitch sighed in unison. Their duet was now a trio.

“You do appreciate the danger involved here.” Fitch’s statement was a question.

“I do. You want me to sign some sort of release? I hereby indemnify and hold harmless, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. I’m familiar with that language. They were trying to cram it down our throats to accept settlements from the oil spill. Detective, I’m full grown and aware of the consequences of my actions. I want to help. If you ask me why, let’s just say Cajuns don’t like guys who get too big for their britches. Chance comes along to bring ’em down a peg or two, count me in.”

“What did you hear these fellows say?” Fitch asked.

Arcineaux repeated what he’d told Boucher. “I’ve got some ideas,” he added. “New Orleans has free-trade zones. You know what they are, don’t you, Judge?”

“A free-trade zone is an area designated to allow goods
to be brought in without duty if they’re going to be shipped out again. There are several areas set aside as free-trade zones in and around New Orleans.”

“You don’t pay customs or duties on stuff shipped to free-trade zones, right?”

“That’s usually true.”

“Other regulations and stuff can be waived, right?”

“To an extent. It’s an economic incentive for local businesses.”

“So if the cargo that the Belgians flew in was intended for one of New Orleans’s free-trade zones, someone with Dumont’s connections could make pretty good use of that, couldn’t he?”

“Especially,” Fitch broke in, “if he has a buddy who has his finger in air traffic control, ICE, Homeland Security, you name it. May I ask you, Mr. Arcineaux, how you arrived at this conclusion? A shrimper, soon to be sport fisherman, is not usually familiar with details of international shipping and customs.”

“I watched a movie on Netflix,” Arcineaux said with a smile. “It was about smuggling between New Orleans and South America, and I kept sayin’ to myself that Dumont must have seen the same film. We all know he’s got powerful friends. So I’m asking you straight out. Is he smuggling in weapons and shipping them out for sale? I can’t imagine what else it could be.”

“We’re not sure,” Boucher said, “and we only have a
statement by a street criminal who says he saw contraband in a Dumont warehouse when Jackson Barracks was under renovation.”

“We’ve also got two illegal guns from homeless thugs and a couple of banned-caliber bullets fired in his own home,” Fitch added.

“He’s smuggling in guns and sellin’ ’em. Christ. How much money does one man need?”

“Like the judge said, we don’t have much evidence, and you don’t go after someone like Dumont . . .”

“. . . without your own guns loaded,” Arcineaux finished. “So the shoes I wore, they picked up traces of something on that boat. What was it?”

“They had traces of drugs.”

“I thought you said—”

“The soles of the shoes you wore had traces of cocaine, but the amounts were too small to have come from actual drugs. Currency in circulation has small traces of cocaine, and other tests showed fibers and chemicals used in U.S. banknotes.”

“So you think maybe he’s shipping out guns and bringing back cash.”

“Yes,” Fitch and Boucher said in unison.

They reached Fitch’s marina, and Arcineaux was shown his new slip. He met his maritime neighbors, who welcomed him to their community. After a few hours of camaraderie, Fitch and Boucher said good-bye. They were silent on the
drive home. When they arrived at Boucher’s house, a light rain was beginning to fall. The two men walked the steps and stood under his covered porch.

“Arcineaux is right. It doesn’t make sense for a man like Dumont to take such a risk.” Boucher spoke the thought that had occupied them both during the drive home.

“Unless he’s got partners so powerful that it amounts to immunity,” Fitch said, “or he’s making such a shitload of money that it justifies such a risk.”

“I don’t know if there is that much money. There’s got to be another reason.”

The rain was falling heavier.

“This downpour’s going to make my evening simple,” Fitch said. “It will be dinner and a movie. To be precise, pizza and a DVD.”

“No plans with Helen?”

“I didn’t say I’d be dining alone. You enjoy your evening with the top guns. Play smart. Know your limits. Why am I telling you this? You’re a big boy; just be careful and keep your eyes and ears open. You might learn something tonight.
Bonne chance, mon ami.
I am about to get wet. Not many of us can walk between the raindrops like you.” Fitch ran to his car and got soaked in the downpour.

B
OUCHER HAD NO TALISMAN,
no prayer for good luck; and though he was a faithful Catholic, he felt conflicted about appealing to the patron saint of gamblers, the fifteenth-century Venetian Saint Cajetan. He hardly viewed Texas Hold ’Em as an enterprise worthy of spiritual intercession and decided, in lieu of prayer, he would just try to keep his wits about him.

There were no other cars in the circular drive before the Corinthian-columned portico of the Dumont home, and his mud-splattered Ford F-150 looked very much out of place. But an attendant appeared before he got out, ready to park his pickup somewhere less conspicuous—like out of sight. Boucher walked up the steps and rang the front doorbell. Deep and sonorous chimes rang from within, and the same uniformed gentleman greeted him. “Good evening, Judge Boucher. Would you mind waiting here in
the entry hall for just a moment? I’m not sure where Mr. Dumont wants to greet his guests.” He shook his head. “He’s always changing his mind at the last minute.”

Boucher stood in the entry. It was a round open space with circular stairs right and left climbing to a second-level gallery; a walkway with wrought-iron balustrades completed the circle. On the walls between closed doors to upper rooms were paintings and sculpture. From the center of a domed cupola hung a mammoth chandelier; perhaps a thousand pieces of fine-cut crystal. Boucher stared up at the art, recognizing several masters from the impressionist period, longing for a closer look.

“How about I give you the guided tour later this evening?” Dumont said, walking out of his library. “Jock, it’s good to see you.” He stepped forward; they shook hands. Dumont gripped Boucher’s forearm in an emphasis of sincerity. “I’m glad you’re the first to arrive. Gives us a chance to talk, and frankly, I’d like to tell you a bit about the general before he gets here. Let’s go into my study. Would you like a drink?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks.”

Dumont led the way to his study. A hardwood floor covered with priceless Oriental carpets, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with aged leather-bound volumes, wood-paneled walls with wainscoting and crown molding, a massive desk beneath a chandelier only slightly smaller than the one in the entry, and French windows looking
out on a dramatically lit weeping willow. Dumont walked to the window and stared out at the tree, standing with legs spread, hands behind his back, as if at parade rest, about to begin a military briefing. He spoke slowly and chose his words with care.

“General Moore spent most of his military career with the First Armored Division,” he began, “and was its commanding officer when he retired from active duty. He was offered and accepted the task of heading up the Multi-Agency Force North, based at Fort Bliss, Texas.”

“So he will head another regional arm of the counternarcotics organization that Gary Quaid runs.”

“They are individually responsible for their specific geographical areas, yes.”

“And he’s at Fort Bliss? That must feel like home to him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m retired army too,” Boucher said. “Still hear from old buddies from time to time. One of them mentioned the First Armored Division’s redeployment to Fort Bliss from their previous base in Wiesbaden, Germany. So this General Moore must feel like his old unit has followed him. Just like home.”

“I suppose. I don’t know whether the ‘home’ analogy is all that fitting. It seems to suggest a degree of comfort that I don’t think is appropriate. This man has spent his life on the front line. He was in Germany staring down the Soviets. Now he’s facing the threat on the border. From the cold war
to the drug war. He’s also an extremely intelligent man, a Ph.D. in international affairs from Georgetown, an alumnus of the National War College at Fort McNair, and like us, he has a passionate interest in history. Difference is, he doesn’t just study history, he makes it. He is one of the few who recognize the need for a fundamental change in America’s foreign policy. He’s a visionary. I just wanted you to know that he’s used to a bit of deference. With what he has done and is doing for this country, he deserves it.”

“Yes, of course. Is that drink offer still open?”

“Absolutely.” Dumont walked to a large antique world globe and flipped it open, bisecting the planet at the equator. It contained crystal decanters and matching crystal glassware. “I’ll call for some ice,” he said.

“That’s not necessary. I’ll take my first one neat.”

“As will I,” Dumont said. “Let’s get a jump start on the boys, shall we?”

Carl Benetton was the next to arrive. When the butler showed him into the study, Dumont ordered a serving cart to be brought in. This was not to be the cardroom, just a place for drinks and conversation. Senator Farmer followed a few minutes later, and he and the lawyer began ribbing each other.

“Ah,” the senator said, “here’s our lawyer for the Mexican drug cartels.”

“I was asked to represent a dual-national U.S./Mexican citizen,” Benetton said facetiously, “who is innocent of the
crimes alleged against him until proven guilty. He is a confused young man who lost his way and is now suffering unspeakable indignities at the hands of his captors in Mexico City.” He punctuated his flippant remark with a quick nod.

“Do you think you’ll get him extradited here?” the senator asked.

“Actually, it’s a done deal. I’ll be accompanying him to the maximum-security federal penitentiary in Florence, Colorado, on Monday.”

“Maximum security? Is he a threat?”

“No. He fears for his life. He could be the most valuable informant we’ve ever had. It’s for his protection.”

The room turned still as a tomb when the final two guests arrived. All heads turned in their direction. For all his power, Gary Quaid seemed to walk in the shadow of General Cyrus Moore, though the two men entered side by side. The latter wore a light gray linen suit, a white cotton broadcloth shirt with a button-down collar, and a solid black tie. The general stood about six feet tall, was of medium build, and could have been well described using only metal-related metaphors: ramrod-straight backbone, gunmetal-gray hair, a steely-eyed look that would freeze lesser men in their tracks. General Cyrus Moore didn’t look, didn’t stare, he glared; and as he walked into the room, his glare was directed at Jock Boucher.

Dumont hastened to Boucher’s side. “Let me introduce you,” he said, and did.

The general offered his hand. Boucher matched the grip. “It’s an honor to meet you, General.”

“I’ve been informed of the judge’s recent activities,” the general said, staring into his eyes but addressing the others in the room. “Ray, I’m glad you have invited such a man to join our group.” Then to Boucher: “You are most welcome, sir, and among us here, it’s not General. It’s Cyrus. Now I seem to have interrupted your conversation.” He turned to the lawyer and the senator.

“Cyrus, can I get you and Gary a drink first?” Dumont said. “We’ll be doing plenty of talking tonight, but we have to get the game started soon.”

Drinks were served, and Boucher was left on his own with a moment to consider the obvious. Everyone here was deeply involved with the Mexican drug war; it was not just an interesting object of conversation among them. He looked at Dumont, the affable host to this influential group, and wondered again just how the wealthy entrepreneur fit in.

“Gentlemen,” Dumont interrupted a few minutes later. “Everything is ready. Let’s play some poker.”

The cardroom continued the wood-dominated decor of the study but was smaller and hexagonal in shape, its dimensions proportionately larger than the green-felt-covered card table in the center. The serving cart was wheeled in behind the men, and the door was closed, the players thus insulated. It was not unlike being inside a
bank vault or a military situation room. The men topped off their drinks, then took their seats. Dumont was on the button as dealer; General Moore, to his left, had the small blind and put in his chips. Boucher, to the general’s left, had the large blind and followed suit. The game was under way.

These men knew one another well enough to know their style of play. Boucher was new, but his own manner was pretty quickly gleaned, he was sure. He played a tight-aggressive game, folding with bad cards, pushing with good—which didn’t come his way too often. He was conservative when his hole cards were strong—hitting one monster with three kings and a pair of eights in the community flop—but believing in the maxim that the best players always know when an opponent has the better hand, he bet conservatively. He won that pot, though it was far from the biggest. But it led to his moment. Three hands later, he had nothing but king high, a pair of tens in the community. But he had instinct, and his instinct told him it was time to raise. He raised on the turn. The other players folded. Gary Quaig stayed in, holding a pair of jacks. Boucher raised again on the river. Quaig hesitated; couldn’t get a read. He caved and folded. Boucher won the pot. Quaig saw his hole cards.